


this must be the place

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Statement Addiction (The Magnus Archives), accidental compulsion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: The Safehouse Period, told through Jon and Martin's daily walks.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94





	this must be the place

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is, tbh. I had an idea while hiking and it turned into 4k of aimless safehouse fluff/angst. Hope you enjoy!

_ The First Day _

The fog clings to the hillside like the cover of a romantic tragedy, and Martin can’t help but feel that rush of idealization, sparing a glance at Jon, who’s walking next to him, eyes fixed on the ground under their feet.

It felt good to sleep next to Jon, even if neither of them actually slept. Jon gave a good show, but got restless and bored and stared at the ceiling about halfway through the night, and Martin was too anxious about every single microscopic movement of his body to either settle in place or put an arm around Jon like he desperately wanted to.

They both gave up the act fairly early in the morning, and Martin had exhaustedly but cheerily suggested they go for a walk, so. Here they are, not talking, occasionally smiling at each other.

As much as Martin wants to break the silence, mostly to hear Jon’s voice, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s not cold and stifling like the Lonely was, it’s more like a weighted blanket over both of them. A calming, pleasant heaviness.

He knows, objectively, that under the layers and layers of oxytocin pumping hard through him, there’s a lot he probably needs to try to process. The Lonely and Jonah Magnus and just about everything else, but for now? For now he has Jon and a really pretty trail to walk on and some damn good cows to make loving noises at, and he might as well enjoy that as much as he can.

*

_ The Second Day _

“Martin?”

Jon’s actually in the lead this morning, several feet ahead of Martin, but he turns to speak to him, pulling his hair back as he does.

“Yeah?” Martin asks, smiling at him.

“Just--well, I--I was  _ thinking _ , and--” Jon sighs and turns back around, walking faster. Martin rushes to keep up. 

“Never a good start,” Martin says, gently teasing, trying to get him to continue and not get stuck in his head.

“What…” Jon starts, then trails off, shrugging. “What do you want this to be?”

“Want--want  _ what _ to be?” Martin squints in light confusion. “A nice hike?”

“No, I mean--I mean  _ us _ , I suppose.” 

“Oh,” Martin says, blinking, a bit stunned by the question. 

“Because I just--I think it’s important to have clear...terms, I suppose? Christ, that sounds  _ clinical _ , I don’t mean--this isn’t--I don’t see you as--this isn’t  _ business _ , it’s--” Jon sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m not good at this.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Martin says, very softly, smiling at Jon, who pointedly avoids his eyes. “Look, I’m not either. I--” Martin sighs too, shrugging. “I’ve never actually had a proper relationship before. You’re actually more experienced than me.”

“That is a  _ horrific _ thought.”

“I know,” Martin says, laughing a bit breathlessly. “But, you know. Blind leading the all-knowing and all-seeing?”

“If the Eye could help me understand my own feelings and desires, trust me, I’d let it,” Jon says, flatly. 

“What do  _ you _ want?”

“Oh, come  _ on _ , Martin, don’t just turn it back on me,” Jon says, running a hand down his face. “I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“Just-- _ please  _ tell me.”

“I don’t know, though, really, Jon!” Martin says, throwing his hands up. “I--I want it to be whatever’s comfortable for you. I want...I want to be close to you and hold you and kiss you if that’s alright and--and sleep in the same place as you and cook for you and experience things for the first time with you and--” He blinks, acutely aware that he’s oversharing and probably going to scare Jon off, and a dawning realization hits him at the same time it seems to hit Jon.

He freezes, hand over his mouth for a brief moment, before-- “Martin, I didn’t do that on purpose, I’m--I’m  _ so  _ sorry, I-- _ fuck _ .”

“No, it’s, um. I just don’t--what I feel for you is pretty, uh. Intense? I guess? And I don’t want to--I don’t want to ask for too much,” Martin says, coughing nervously and looking away from Jon.

“You could ask me for just about anything and I’d give it to you,” Jon says, quietly, voice seemingly stuck in his throat.

“Well, don’t compel me again, how about?” Martin asks, and he does mean it to be at least half-teasing, but it comes out black and ugly.

“I promise to do my absolute best, I’m--I’m--” Jon says, exhaling hard. “I’m ashamed. I should be able to control it better.”

“It’s alright. You can’t help it,” Martin says, softer. “Just--I want  _ us _ to be...together, I guess, I don’t know what other word to use. I don’t want anyone else.”

“I don’t either,” Jon says.

“Well. Good, then.”

“Would you perhaps be interested in holding my hand for a bit?” Jon asks, deeply awkwardly, and Martin can’t help but laugh.

“I might have a passing curiosity, actually, yeah.”

*

_ The Third Day _

It’s completely fogged in again, and the damp chill settles heavy. Jon always gets the feeling of walking through a ghost, and the thought almost makes him laugh, remembering how he and Georgie always used to jokingly drop to hushed whispers whenever there was a sudden draft-- _ I think there’s a  _ presence _ here, Georgina _ .

Martin hugs himself and takes the lead, pushing on, not even stopping to talk to a nearby cow. Jon consciously tries to just--to just open his mouth and ask Martin what’s wrong, to communicate the way  _ people _ do, but the Eye sees an opportunity and steps in, opening the door to Martin’s mind just a crack.

Nothing but fog seeps out, cold and thick and mind-erasing. Memories of the Lonely, half-formed and still fully-felt. He’s scared to lose Jon, scared to be alone again, and Jon slams the door and tries to think of something comforting to say without revealing that he accidentally looked in Martin’s mind. 

He can’t come up with anything, just catches up to Martin and presses his shoulder against Martin’s and tries to make sure he knows he’s not alone. 

*

_ The Fourth Day _

It’s still damp and foggy. Martin’s still visibly miles and dimensions away, mind stuck timeless in a cold, blank void. He got better once they were back in the house yesterday, made tea and played games and watched crap, fuzzy TV. Jon had thought maybe he’d pulled himself out of his spiral, but clearly not, so he can’t just sit idly and let Martin suffer anymore.

“Are you alright?” he asks, softly, and it’s not close to enough but he doesn’t know what else to say.

Martin startles out of the haze of depression Jon could feel hanging over him. “Uh, yeah. S-sorry, I sort of get caught up thinking when I walk, sometimes.”

“It reminds you of the Lonely, doesn’t it,” Jon says, gesturing vaguely at the white sky.

“Yeah,” Martin breathes, looking away from Jon. “A bit.”

“You’re not alone, Martin,” Jon says, softly. It’s an obvious thing to say. A cliche. But he doesn’t know--he can’t say he loves Martin, not  _ yet _ , he’s sure he’d come on far too strong, so...what else is there, other than making sure Martin knows he has Jon? 

“I know,” Martin says, trying to smile, still looking at the ground. “I know I’m not.”

“I know that--that I’m not--” Jon sighs. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t feel however you feel. Just...I’m here, and I’m not leaving.”

“You better not,” Martin says, clearly trying to laugh, but it gets stuck in his throat and comes out suspiciously close to a sob. He shrugs it off. “I’m fine, Jon. Really. Just--it’s not so much that I’m afraid of being alone again, more that--that I can’t shake off how it felt, y’know? I’m always going to  _ know _ how it feels to be completely, utterly, entirely alone. For the rest of my life, it’s just going to  _ be _ there.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Jon says, trying not to let his tone slip too dark as the greatest hits of his traumas and nightmares and deepest fears roll through his mind. The worms boring into his skin, the moment he realized Sasha wasn’t Sasha anymore, falling endlessly, burning shrieking pain, hunted, kidnapped, afraid, comatose, lost,  _ hungry _ , alone--things he thought he’d never have to experience or comprehend, not on the level he does now. 

“Of course you do,” Martin says, softly, and there’s a flash under the crack in the door to his mind of him berating himself, like he’s his own disapproving parent.  _ Mustn’t complain, Martin, you’ll minimize his suffering _ . 

“Sorry. That wasn’t--I just mean that I get it. You can tell me anything, Martin, truly, I want you to--to trust me with your feelings,” Jon says.

“I know,” Martin says, softly. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will. I just want to help if I can."

*

_ The Fifth Day _

“Alright, um. Favorite song.” Martin smiles at Jon, expectantly, and almost trips over a rock because he’s not looking where he’s going. He tries not to curse himself for being stupid. It’s probably sort of endearing, maybe.

“I honestly haven’t listened to music in a long time,” Jon says, laughing a bit sadly. “I miss it. Been busy with...well, everything.”

“Okay, but you still have to have a favorite song,” Martin says, shrugging. “Even if it’s from a while ago.”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, shrugging back. 

“You don’t have to worry about embarrassing yourself, you know I’ll find whatever you say  _ overwhelmingly _ charming,” Martin says, as he scrabbles to find a non-embarrassing answer himself, assuming Jon will try to turn it back on him.

“Not to be  _ that guy _ but the only thing that’s coming to mind is, uh. Well, all of Dark Side of the Moon, but Brain Damage into Eclipse, specifically,” Jon says, lip twitching, shoulders hunching a bit defensively.

“Nothing wrong with Pink Floyd, mate, Eclipse always gets me all goosebump-y,” Martin says, beaming, glad that he censored himself before a cheery  _ it makes my nipples hard _ slipped out. His brain-mouth filter is one of his best qualities, sometimes, he thinks.

“I keep trying to think of things to say that don’t make me sound unbearable but all that comes to mind is...Radiohead, the Cure, the Smiths--it’s all damning,” Jon says, smiling at the ground. “What about you?”

“Well...all  _ I _ can think of is, uh. There’s a song that’s been stuck in my head since we got to Scotland, it...it reminds me of you. How I--how I feel with you.” Martin feels himself flush, Jon’s still uncharacteristically soft, fond gaze locked onto his face.

“Go on,” Jon says, clearly gently teasing.

“Um. This Must Be The Place? You know, uh. ‘I got plenty of time, you got light in your eyes, and you’re standing here beside me--’”

“‘--I love the passing of time,’” Jon finishes, smiling. He takes Martin’s hand and squeezes. “That’s a good one, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, because he can’t think of anything else. He squeezes Jon’s hand back and tries not to blurt out that he loves him.

*

_ The Sixth Day _

Today’s walk has been brutal and hilly and Jon’s limping slightly, which Martin feels hellishly guilty for, but also they have a beautiful view of stunning green nothing as far as the eye can see (well, not the Eye, but) and he’s pretty jazzed about it, if he’s honest. It makes him want to go all Sound of Music Julie Andrews and throw his arms wide and twirl.

Jon’s been quiet and a bit paler than normal, eyes always moving, clearly lost in thought. Martin doesn’t want to push anything, and he knows Jon would immediately and reflexively lie if Martin asks how he is, so he doesn’t.

“Do you, um,” Martin starts, hint of a smile escaping and pushing at his lips. “How would you feel about maybe running down this hill?”

“So, no making a deal with God to swap our places, then?” Jon asks, flatly, but he raises an eyebrow and smirks slightly, and Martin can’t help but sigh, both disgustedly and appreciatively.

“If you’re not up for it I’ll do it alone and look like an idiot,” Martin says, shrugging. “But I think it might be a fun bonding activity.”

“We’re not bonded enough already?” Jon asks, and Martin  _ knows _ he means it as teasing, but there is nothing at all resembling emotion in his voice.

“No,” Martin says, raising his chin stubbornly. “Never.”

“Fair enough,” Jon says, clearly trying to smile, extending his arm to Martin, palm upturned. Martin smacks their hands together, grips tight, and starts running, letting momentum carry him. He’s about twenty years too old for this, but who  _ cares _ , they’re alone together in the middle of nowhere and there is  _ nothing _ wrong with trying to find joy wherever they can. He finds himself laughing breathlessly, focusing completely on trying to figure out where to put his feet, and once they reach the bottom Jon crashes into his arms, side of his face pressed against Martin’s chest.

“See?” Martin gasps, wrapping his arms around Jon and holding him close, rocking him slightly, trying not to be self conscious about how much he’s sweating. “That was fun.”

“It was,” Jon says, softly, into his jumper, and then he says something else that’s too muffled for Martin to hear.

*

_ The Seventh Day _

Jon is--well,  _ Jon _ isn’t,  _ Jon _ isn’t anything, just a name for a void full of always-open eyes desperate to see something new. The thing that still calls itself Jon because it doesn’t know what else to go by is  _ starving _ . He held himself together for so long, a  _ week _ , and he felt it creeping in but thought--thought what? Thought somehow he was stronger than the thing that owns him? What a stupid fucking thing to think.

It’s all he can think of. Walking becomes a struggle. He slows, lags far behind Martin, and Martin always stops and waits patiently for him to catch up, but Jon wishes he wouldn’t, because every time he gets too close to Martin all he can think of is that  _ something _ in Martin has to be worth extracting, there’s something worth consuming in there somewhere, and then he wouldn’t have to feel like this any longer.

But he would also never forgive himself, not in this lifetime or any other, not for hurting Martin. Every time Martin looks at him he sees that dewey, innocent look cows get before they’re slaughtered, trusting and loving and never understanding that the people that take care of them are just the worst kind of predator. 

He has to be strong, but that’s easy to say. It could be over so fast. He could be  _ h-- _ no. Not happy. That sort of thinking is a dangerous game. He can’t stop fixating on how it felt though, the moments immediately after he extracted statements from innocents, that  _ rush _ . Tasting something new, something that wasn’t freely offered, trauma so deeply held it’s not even for the Institute, it’s just  _ his _ . His and the Eye’s.

But he tries to break himself out of thinking like that. He can’t. He can’t. He has to be better. For Martin, if not for himself.

*

_ The Eighth Day _

The silence is a damning curse, worse than anything Martin could say. He still insisted that they go on their walk, even if he couldn’t look Jon in the eye, and he’s still marching on as intently as ever, still stopping to point out birds and pretty trees, still--but aside from that, he doesn’t say a word.

Jon can’t take it anymore. They have to talk about it. He’d even be happy for Martin to just scream at him. But they can’t let it hang unaddressed between them. Martin doesn’t need more of his pain to just be swept under the rug.

“Martin,” he says, once they’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes. Martin recoils from his own name and scratches the back of his neck.

“Yes?”

“We have to talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Martin asks, voice filled to the brim with fake, about-to-shatter cheer. 

“Martin…” Jon sighs.

“We can talk about anything else,” Martin says, and it’s becoming a plea. “Anything. We don’t have to--”

“Yes, we do,” Jon says. “You know we do.”

“We don’t,” Martin says, too quickly. “Really. Look, it’s--it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Jon jogs a few steps to catch up to Martin and puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “Please look at me, Martin.” Martin, begrudgingly, bites his lip and looks at Jon.

“Of course it’s not fine,” Martin says, softly. “But I forgive you, and I don’t want you to torture yourself over it. Things--things  _ happen _ . I don’t blame you. You--you were starving, you were desperate, I know that if you had  _ any _ other choice you wouldn’t have done that. I mean, really, it’s--one of us should’ve thought to bring statements with us, so. It’s on both of us, and--”

“I’m not letting you accept  _ any _ blame for last night. Understood?”

“Fine, but, all I mean is--” Martin sighs. “I forgive you, okay? Don’t rip yourself apart on my account. I’m not upset.”

“What on earth did I ever do to deserve you?” Jon breathes, reaching a hand up, fingers trailing Martin’s face.

“You were yourself,” Martin says, blushing slightly and looking away, shrugging. “That’s all you needed to do.”

*

_ The Ninth Day _

Jon, using the Eye to cheat on date spots, led Martin straight to a stunning, if damp, meadow, and Martin’s sprawled on his back in the middle of it, staring up at the sky and trying to ignore his grass allergy, Jon curled up with his head on Martin’s chest. 

He’s been extra sweet and attentive and apologetic since--well, since he fed on Martin, which does make sense, and while Martin really doesn’t want him to beat himself up for it, it is sort of nice. This... _ this _ is nice, Jon tracing the pattern on Martin’s jumper with his fingers, Martin stroking Jon’s hair, the two of them just breathing together. They’re not free and clear of  _ anything _ , not yet, maybe not ever, but it’s nice to pretend.

“I have…” Jon starts, then sighs or laughs maybe. “I have  _ so _ many feelings for you.”

“Which ones would those be?” Martin asks, breath catching a little bit, even though he basically knew that by now.

“Oh, you know. Admiration, respect, warmth, hope, contentment, affection,” Jon says, shrugging against his side. “Several others as well.”

“That’s embarrassing,” Martin says, dryly, and Jon snorts softly.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I have all the same feelings,” Martin says. “One of us is going to have to put these back or it’s going to be embarrassing when we have the same feelings out in public together.”

“I love you,” Jon breathes, fond amusement in his voice, and Martin’s entire body goes rigid.

“Oh,” Martin says, blinking, mind blanked out.

“It’s, um. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that so--uh. Y-you can--please don’t feel obligated to say it back, especially not after--”

“Jon, I love you  _ so  _ much,” Martin says, laughing breathlessly. “You know that. You  _ must _ .”

“I--I do,” Jon says. “It’s still...it’s--I like hearing you say it.”

“Then I’ll say it again. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jon says, nuzzling himself deeper into Martin’s side.

*

_ The Tenth Day _

“We can’t have proper sex,” Jon says, out of absolutely nowhere, five minutes down their regular trail. “I hope that doesn’t change anything.”

Martin blinks, stunned, and struggles to form words. He knew, obviously, he just wasn’t expecting Jon to be so blunt and straightforward, well,  _ ever _ . “Um.”

“I--I don’t get turned on by--by  _ anything _ , is all, and--well, that’s not true, it happens on occasion, but maybe only once every year or so, and even when I do, I can’t really do anything about it and I’m not sure I want to.”

“Jon, you don’t have to--”

“But, that being said, while--while  _ I _ don’t want to be touched or handled or...or anything else, like that, at least, I’m willing to attempt to contribute to, uh. To you...well--” Jon sighs, visibly searching for the proper terminology. He sounds like a fussy little professor. Martin loves him  _ so _ dearly.

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with or actively interested in, Jon,” Martin says. “That’s not going to be good for either of us. I don’t need to have sex with you to--”

“Well, I think...I think maybe…” Jon sighs again, lips moving, trying a sentence out. “I would like to be involved in--in  _ you _ , uh. C-climaxing? I don’t--”

Martin can’t help but laugh at that, looking at the sky and shaking his head. “Sure. Climaxing.”

“But without touching you. If...if possible. I mean, you can kiss me, that’s fine, obviously. But--but if--if  _ somehow _ seeing my body does anything for you, you’re welcome to, and--and if--if my voice--uh. Well. Yes.”

“I appreciate the offer, Jon, but the thought of you talking me off is honestly just funny,” Martin says, lips twitching. 

“That’s unfair, I can--give me a chance,” Jon says.

“I don’t know, it feels really prescriptive? I’m capable of, uh,  _ climaxing _ on my own, and--”

“Yes, I know you are, but I’d like to be involved  _ somehow _ .”

“Thank you, really, but--” Martin starts. Jon cuts him off.

“You don’t think I can manage,” Jon says, and his tone drops back several years in time, suddenly scathing again. “Of course you don’t. You’ve never been all that ‘big picture’, have you,  _ Martin _ ? I think I might surprise you.”

Martin feels himself flushing just at the voice, and he clears his throat. “Alright, maybe we’ll give it a shot. Only if it happens naturally, though.”

“I want to make it clear that that was--I’m not actually--I don’t want to be  _ mean _ , I--” Jon says, voice returning to the way it’s been lately.

“I know,” Martin says, laughing. “Thank you, love.”

*

_ The Eleventh Day _

The hunger’s starting to creep its way back. It’s not bad again, not yet, but it’s there, a dull echo in Jon’s bones, twitching at the back of his mind.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do this time. He can’t hurt Martin again. He’ll have to just...find someone in town, or. He tries to run through a plan as he walks, and absently pulls a cigarette out of the back in his breast pocket, placing it between his lips and flicking the web lighter on.

As he takes a drag, Martin makes a deeply indignant noise.

“Do you  _ mind _ ?” he asks, in that uniquely righteous, pissy, squeaky tone of his. It floods Jon with fondness, and he can’t believe it used to irritate him.

“Be more specific?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“We’re on a  _ lovely _ walk in a beautiful place, and you’re  _ smoking _ at me,” Martin says.

“The rule was not in the house, I thought,” Jon says, squinting in confusion.

“Well, it  _ is _ , but,” Martin says, then sighs, staring petulantly at the ground. 

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks, taking another drag and pointedly exhaling in the opposite direction of Martin.

“Nothing,” Martin sighs. “You’re an adult, you can make whatever bad decisions you want.”

Jon can’t help but laugh at that. “Martin, I’ve been stabbed, blown up, nearly skinned, burned--the list goes on. You really think that  _ smoking _ is going to be the thing that destroys me?”

“Well, I don’t think you need any help destroying yourself!” Martin says, throwing his hands up. “I just want you to be alright, okay? I don’t want you to get lung cancer, or--”

“Martin, listen, please. Smoking isn’t going to kill me. I can promise you that,” Jon says. “It helps me. It’s a coping mechanism. I won’t ever do it indoors with you, but I need this. Alright?”

“Fine,” Martin sighs again, crossing his arms and making a small huffing sound.

*

_ The Twelfth Day _

One of Jon’s favorite things about Martin (and there’s a long list) is how readily he accepts Jon’s--well, what’s the word for it. Quirks? Trauma responses? Occasional inability to speak or to find anything worth saying? Everything, really, actually. Martin takes every single thing about him in perfect stride and finds some way to make it lovable. He almost makes Jon love things about himself he despised until he shared them. Jon would call it supernatural if he weren’t intimately familiar with all of the horrible implications that word holds. 

Maybe it’s completely natural. It feels like it might be. Like every single glance and smile and kiss and hand-brush is just the universe slotting into place the way it’s supposed to for both of them, finally. It’s a nice thought, even if it’s unlikely. Jon always thought his life would end alone on the end of a long, silky string. However it happens now, he at least knows he’s loved and he knows he is acutely, venomously, overpoweringly capable of love. 

Maybe not a  _ happy _ ending, but close enough to it.

*

_ The Thirteenth Day _

Jon doesn’t join Martin for their daily walk. He’s too hungry, he says. He feels something coming. Something he can’t place.

Martin wishes he could say he’s surprised when the world ends. He’s not, though. He’s nothing other than strangely calm. They still have each other. This isn’t  _ it _ . There’s still an entire epilogue to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All feedback is greatly appreciated <3  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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